


Prayer like a Symphony

by EminEmily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EminEmily/pseuds/EminEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can hear Cas' prayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer like a Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I totally forgot to link this in my other fics, but oh well. You can find my tumblr here: http://casandsamanddean.tumblr.com, or if you want to follow just a regular blog, my main one is http://marigoldsandmagnolias.tumblr.com
> 
> This is rated Teen & Up basically just because of language. I was gonna go General Audiences but I wanted to be safe, so oh well. Enjoy!

The first time it happened, Dean didn't listen closely enough to even consider that it sounded like Cas. He’d heard a deep voice, closed his book on this thumb, and immediately assumed it was Sam. He looked across the table at him, eyebrow raised. “You say something, man?”

Sam shook his head, “No, why?”  


Dean scratched at his own head in reply “No reason. I just . . . thought I heard someone talking. Guess not.” He turned back to his book, ignoring the pointedly worried look Sam sent in his direction.

+++

The second time it happened, Dean thought it was his brain playing tricks on him. He’d been lying in bed in the bunker, purposely trying to empty his mind in preparation for sleep when he’d heard it. It sounded so much like the first time that he had no idea how he could have thought it was Sam. It sounded like a thunderstorm personified, laced with a sweet benediction that flowed over Dean like silk. He felt the weight of forgiveness and unquestionable loyalty in his gut, and his breath was forced from his lungs in awe. It sounded like Cas whispering in his ear. Except it was in his head, and it couldn't have been Cas, because Cas was gone and Dean could feel it like a punch to the solar plexus whenever he was reminded of it.

The voice, whoever’s it was, spoke nothing but his name. Nothing but a whispered _Dean_ , but it sounded like deliverance and an admission of love at the same time. Dean supposed it was his conscience, trying to comfort him or whatever, but all it felt like was salt in an open wound. He didn't need reminding of how much he missed Cas, he damn well knew that he missed him with his very being, felt his absence like a shotgun shell lodged in his chest.

No, he never needed any reminding, and so he ignored the voice, his conscience, whatever it was, and fell asleep.

+++

The third time, Dean blamed it on the alcohol. It’d been a month and a half since he'd last talked to him, since Cas had fucked off to heaven and left everything behind him. The ripped edges tore at Dean, devoured him like a parasite. Loneliness was a parasite. So Dean did what he always did and stumbled off to the nearest bar. He started off with his best friend Jack Daniels and just didn’t stop. Every drink was numbing, and Dean needed it to numb the throbbing mess inside him, the loose edges that caught the breeze and flapped in the wind.

He even started flirting with a brown-eyed, blonde cutie at the bar. Flashed his smirk, made up a line. Within a minute he was sitting next to her and whispering into her ear while twirling his finger around a blonde lock.

Suddenly, he heard his name again. _Dean_ flowed over him like a soothing balm, and everything changed. Long blonde hair morphed into short black, brown eyes iced over and became the color of the ocean. Dean dropped the girl’s hair, stumbling off his bar stool and back a few steps, blinking until the overlaid image of Cas left his mind.

He shook his head. Suddenly, the girl was wrong, the bar was wrong, _everything_ was wrong, and he had to leave.

He apologized to the girl and turned on his heels, practically sprinted out of the door and back towards the motel room at a brisk walk . . . well, as brisk a walk as he could manage in his stumbling gait. His mind spun, trying to put together a puzzle he didn’t have all the pieces for yet.

Dean wanted to believe with everything he had that the voice in his head was Cas. But it couldn’t be, because there was no logical reason for Cas to be in his head like that. Not to mention, Dean was a Winchester, and Winchesters learn early on to always be suspicious of gifts, especially if it comes in a pretty package, and especially if it's something you were desperate for. And Dean was desperate for Cas. He craved him like an addict craved their next hit. Cas was almost a drug to Dean, and he had no idea why. He had no idea why he ached for Cas and felt the lack of him so intensely. He had no idea why he craved him so badly he almost went insane without him.

So when Dean finally stumbled into his and Sam’s shared motel room, facing the bemused and concerned stare of his brother, Dean slammed the door shut, stalked directly by Sam, collapsed into his bed, and immediately fell asleep. In some remote part of his brain, Dean wanted to believe it was Cas, hope against all hope that the angel was somehow contacting him in some way. The other part yelled and screamed that it was fake, an alcohol-induced hallucination. The second part won, and Dean sank into the beautiful abyss of unconsciousness.

The following morning, Dean woke up with a pounding headache and a feeling like he’d forgotten something important. He thought of Cas and his deep voice, but his head made no connection because he always thought of Cas, and that wasn’t unusual.

+++

The next time, Dean blamed his dreams, more specifically his subconscious. It was another case in another town, except this one was closer to home, so Dean got to sleep in his regular bed in the Bunker. The excitement of returning to his memory foam nest almost won out over the dark cloud that had been following him around for days -- weeks, if he were being honest. Almost, but not quite, and so the smile he gave Sam about returning home was hollow at best. He hadn't heard from Cas –- the real one, not the one in his head -– in almost four months at this point, and he was starting to worry. He’d tried praying, but all he got was a sense of rejection and a whole lot of nothing. That was worrying him more than anything, that Cas wasn’t answering his prayers. Cas almost always answered them, and the times he didn't there was always something serious going on in the bigger picture. So Dean happened to be worrying like a housewife when her husband didn't come home from work. Dean was so tired he didn't even think to analyse the analogy that he was the housewife to Cas' working-class husband.

So, to be honest, could you really blame Dean for not thinking the Cas in his _dreams_ was the real one? Come on, not only was it a dream, but Dean had been thinking about Cas almost constantly lately anyway, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch to think the two had finally overlapped. Except, if this was a dream, it was a pretty weird one, even by Dean’s standards.

Usually, when Dean dreamed about Cas, it went one of two ways. The first was to be expected, if Dean were to be honest with himself. It was Cas' voice, Cas' mouth, his tongue, his hands, his stubble. It was all heat and grasping hands, gasping voices. Dean would wake up flushed with embarrassment and arousal, anything he remembered would be filed away in a spank bank for later perusal, and he would move on with his day like a normal person. Well, as normal as he could be, considering the life he led.

The second direction was, admittedly, the more boring option. It was the dock, with the folding chair and fishing pole, Cas stood by his side while the early morning or late evening wore on. When Cas was actively trying to reach Dean via dream walking, he usually stood stiffly beside Dean, both of them discussing whatever the problem was. When he wasn’t, and Dean was dreaming of the dock for comfort, he and Cas never spoke, and Cas often sat beside him sans trench coat, suit jacket, and tie, sleeves rolled up and his posture at ease. Sometimes Cas rolled up his pant legs, too, and swung his feet off the side of the dock.

Those dreams, though objectively not as fun, were Dean’s favourite. Especially since, even when Cas was dream walking, he sat beside Dean or off the dock a lot these days. It seemed as if his stint as a human had made Cas aware of his body in a way he just wasn’t before. It added a natural slump to his posture, a sureness in his movements that was more awareness than rigid power. Being human, among other experiences, maybe, taught Cas to sit down sometimes. To take off the suit armor and roll up his sleeves. Because of this, Dean tended to love those dreams more. He had no idea what that said about him, didn't want to analyse it, actually, but being with Cas in those quiet moments were better than the imagined heated passion. They were more natural, more Cas than anything else he usually dreamed of. Those dreams made Dean wake up weary, the hole in his chest expanding as an acute sort of loneliness crept over him, but he would't trade those quiet moments for anything, dream or not.

This dream, however, was unlike any Cas dream, hell, any regular dream, that Dean had ever had. He found himself staring into a dark void, unable to feel, see, or hear anything. When he could hear and see, it all confused him. Shadows moved around in his peripheral vision, interspersed with bright flashes of blue. Dean was alone, or he thought he was, at least, hoped he was. The setting of this dream felt like a nightmare, but it couldn't be. Dean felt an odd sense of belonging and calmness settle over him. Almost like he was home, as weird as it sounded. When a voice spoke, Dean felt it swirl in the hollows of his bones. It filed him, his ears, his brain, his bones. It pooled in his chest and stomach and flowed through his veins. There was no mistaking it, this was Cas. Whether he was dream walking, or something weirder was going on, this was irrefutably Cas. Dean knew it instantly, as if more than just his brain recognized it, as if his entire body did, coming to life like it was suddenly laid on a live wire. He felt the slump work out of his shoulders, and a gentle smile graced his face. It was finally Cas, he’d heard from him at last.

“Cas,” he called out, voice echoing like he was standing in a cavern.

 _Dean_ , came Cas’ reply. Dean almost felt it more than heard it, but that wasn’t quite right because he couldn't feel anything here, in this in between space, whatever it was. He felt it swirl around in his brain, as if Cas wasn’t really saying it, but sending it mentally.

“Cas,” Dean cleared his throat, “Cas, where are you, man?”

 _Dean_ , he responded, much to Dean’s bemusement. _Dean, I wish you were here with me._

“I could be if you’d just tell me where you are, buddy.”

_Dean, sometimes I think pulling you from Perdition was simultaneously the best and the worst thing I've ever done._

“That was sort of random. Should I be offended?” Dean called out.

 _Sometimes I look at how you see Sam and I get this ugly, jealous feeling inside me. Sometimes I wish you would see me as you see Sam, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I wish you felt something else for me, something I cannot even begin to describe. It feels normal to me, reminds me of my dedication to my father, but it also feels foreign, like a separate entity. I think—I think it’s love, but a different kind from what I have for my father, or my brothers and sisters. That’s why it feels different. I think I wished you loved me, Dean. Really loved me, differently from the way you love your brother or anyone else before me. I think…I think I’m in love with you, Dean Winchester, and I have absolutely no idea how to handle it, or even what to do with that information._

Dean was . . . well, he was at a loss for words, to say the least. He was flushed crimson red to the tips of his ears, and he suddenly felt as if he were intruding on a private conversation meant to go unheard, even though Cas was addressing him. The wheels were spinning in his brain, but it was as if everything was on pause for him, as if everything ceased to function in that moment. It was even more odd that after all his time of being away, Cas’ first contact with Dean was to tell him this, to proclaim love for the hunter. It was almost as if . . . 

“Cas, can you even hear me right now?” Dean called, hearing his voice reflected back in hollow-sounding echoes. No reply. “No? Okay, apparently not. What is this, then? What’s going on?”

_When my father, by divine prophecy, instructed my garrison to retrieve you from Hell, I was confused, to say the least. I didn’t think you were that special. An above average hunter, but an average human. I did not understand why your fate, of all people's, was to be pulled from the very place you stuck yourself in, beyond being Michael’s vessel. When my garrison finally pushed through the muck and the mirth and the blood, I finally understood. I understood everything. I understood prophecy and fate. That was the moment I saved you, and you saved me, and we saved each other. I saw your tenderness and capacity for sacrifice. I saw the devotion to your brother, and your fight to help those who cannot help themselves, and I fell into an endless sort of devotion. Dean Winchester, you corrupted me and dragged me into the mud, but it was the best thing that any prophecy could have foretold. And now I sit here, among my brethren, in the place that I am to consider my home, and I think it feels empty without you._

_I have met Death three times. I have lost my Grace and gained it back and killed countless for you, and yet the only thing I fear now is voicing my thoughts. I have prayed to you almost every night since I left and though I know it is ironic, and that you cannot hear me, it comforts me all the same. I will see you again, Dean, I swear it._

“Wait, Cas, was that—were you praying to me? Is that what that was? Am I hearing your prayers now? . . . Cas? . . .Cas!” Much to Dean’s dismay, the world, or maybe just his brain, was silent now, empty of all but him. And despite himself, Dean felt oblivion sinking its claws into his flesh and pulling him into is depths.

+++

The next morning, Dean awoke with purpose. There was no confusion now, no brushing this off as anything other than what it was. There was no blaming mishearing, alcohol, or his own goddamn mind; Dean knew this was no smoke screen, it was really Cas the night before. It was Cas, and Dean remembered all of it. He remembered everything Cas had said. And now, not only did he know where Cas was, he knew some things he had never knew before.

Dean supposed that hearing his best friend was in love with him should have had a different effect on him than it did. More profound . . . or something. As it were, Dean only felt happiness and warmth, like a miniature sun had expanded into being inside his chest. After the initial shock, Dean had analyzed his reaction and decided that pretty much answered any doubts he had. Cas claimed to be in love with him, and instead of wanting to cringe away or run for the hills, Dean was only extremely joyful and wanted nothing more than to see the angel, his angel, again. Following this line of thought, and making the next logical leap, Dean came to the understanding that after everything they’d been through together, he loved him, too. He kept the guy’s wet, musty trench coat in the trunk of Baby for months on end, for God’s sake, he should have known then what he felt. Then again, according to Sam, Dean’s level of emotional observation is akin to that of a bag of bricks, so what did everyone expect, honestly?

Now, all he needed was to see Cas again and get the weight of his feelings off his chest, let Cas shoulder them with him. He knew the angel would do so without question. He knew Cas would do anything for him, and Dean wondered how dumb he could possibly have been not to notice it all before then.

He found Sam in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice, poking at some eggs. “Mornin’, Sammy,” Dean greeted, moving over to the coffee maker and puling a mug from the cupboard.

“Morning, Dean,” Sam replied, fork scraping over his ceramic plate while he cut his eggs.

Dean threw some toast in the toaster. “We haven’t been involved with anything . . . weird, lately, have we?” He asked.

Sam snorted, “Uh, yes? Every day of our lives?”

Dean shook his head, “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, like, weirder than usual.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, “No? Not that I know of. Just the usual things that go bump in the night, why?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, “Because, uh, something sorta weird is going on? With me . . . and Cas.”

Sam outright laughed, “That’s the understatement of the century.”

Dean twitched nervously, “Shut up, Sammy. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I meant extra weird.”

“Okay, okay, fine, shoot.” Sam acquiesced.

Dean settled heavily in the seat across from Sam, coffee and freshly buttered toast laid out in front of him. “I’ve been hearing . . . a voice . . . inside my head lately, and I’m pretty sure it’s Cas.”

“O-okay, so, like, dream walking?” Sam said slowly.

“No, I meant outside of dreams, when I’m not sleeping. I just sort of hear him talking to me in my head.” Sam raised an eyebrow again. “I think—I think I've been hearing his prayers,” Dean finished.

Sam looked at him skeptically, so Dean told him everything that had happened so far, excluding the time he heard Cas but didn't remember in the morning. When he reached his dream, Dean mulled over in his head whether or not to give Sam the bare bones account, or tell him everything. He decided to go with everything, because why not? And because, with how obvious it seemed to Dean when he figured it out, Sam probably already knew.

When he finished, Dean leaned back in his chair, sipping at the last dregs of his coffee. Sam looked thoughtful. “That . . . seems totally plausible, now that you've explained it. It’s like the prayer system had the switch thrown so the frequency ran backwards. You can hear his but he can’t hear yours. Interesting . . .” He trailed off, humming quietly.

Dean grunted, “This is not the time for a science experiment, Sammy, we need to get a hold of Cas.”

Sam smirked, “Why? So you can kiss him?” Dean blushed and grumbled under his breath. “I already knew, dude. You guys are the exact opposite of subtle. I don’t care, either. If he makes you happy, he makes you happy, end of. Okay, Dean?”

Dean simply nodded in lieu of replying, but Sam could see relief in his eyes. He fought the urge to shake his head, Dean was ridiculous with his capacity for expected judgment. Then again, maybe their dad was to blame for that, and for Dean’s masculine affection to be so hidden and latent. Either way, Sam was glad he finally came to terms with it enough to admit it to not only himself, but to Sam. It was about time he removed his head from his ass.

Sam rubbed his hands together, ready to get down to business. “Okay, so, we’re going to need some summoning spell ingredients. I’ll get the holy oil?”

Dean shook his head. “No, no holy oil. I don’t want trap him, just force him to fucking talk to me already.” He grumbled, mumbling under his breath, “I sorta wanna trap him for never answering me, the dickbag.”

Sam tried really, really hard not to compare his brother to a scorned lover, but if the shoe fits . . . 

+++

A half an hour later and the brothers had cleared an area of the bunker’s floor and drew the corresponding sigils. Sam read from his book, voice clear and bold, and within moments they had an angel materializing in thin air. Cas looked around, panic evident in his wide eyes until his gaze settled on the Winchesters. His look softened once he realized crises were averted, and then softened that much more when he glanced at Dean.

“Why did you summon me?” He asked, voice just as deep as Dean remembered. Of course, hearing his prayers helped Dean to never really forget. That voice, that honey-over-gravel tone, still did things to Dean.

“You haven’t check in in, like, 4 months, man. We thought something was wrong.”

Cas straightened, looking vaguely annoyed now. “No, I was in Heaven, aiding my brothers and sisters in bettering their understanding of what free will means. I thought you’d trust me to come to you if something occurred.” He raised his chin, “I was quite busy, actually. I had many things to—“

Whatever Cas had to say was effectively interrupted by Dean, bursting out “Oh, shut up,” before surging forward, gripping Cas by the lapels of his trench coat, and pulling him in for a heated, hurried press of lips. Cas tensed visibly at first, obviously concerned by the turn of events. It didn't stop Dean, though, who guided Cas with careful, slow movements, and the press of his hand on the back of his head. After a few moments, Cas relaxed and let himself fall into Dean, replying with a clash of lips and tongue and teeth, a contrast to the gentle hands Dean was using to roam his checks until they found handholds in his hair. If it were anyone but his brother and one of his closest friends, Sam might have been touched. As it were, he just wanted to throw up.

Dean pulled away and held Cas at less than arm’s length away. “I heard your prayers.”

Cas looked considerably more confused for a moment, but nodded as the pieces apparently came together for him. He blushed for what was probably the first time in his millennis-long existence. “Oh, that. When I returned to the Host, I forgot how much of themselves they project in order to communicate in Heaven. I guess I went a little overboard.”

Dean shook his head, letting his hand come to rest on the side of Cas' cheek. His thumb stroked his cheekbone. “It’s okay, Cas. I needed to hear it.”

Cas nodded, licking his lips nervously. Sam was a considerable distance away, and even he could tell that Dean tracked the movement with his eyes. Cas cleared his throat. “So you . . . you feel the—“

“Yes,” Dean interrupted. Cas nodded succinctly and nothing more was said for a couple of minutes while he and Dean stared at each other.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly and the tension snapped like a rubber band. Dean and Cas blinked a few times and completely broke apart, stepping away from each other. Sam brought a thumb up over his shoulder. “I, uh, I’m just gonna . . . go. It was nice seeing you again, Cas.”

“And you as well, Sam.” Cas replied before Sam scurried off.

Cas turned his attention back to Dean, who was gazing at him with a placid expression. “I heard your prayers, and I—I feel it too, Cas. Everything. I missed you.” Dean gathered Cas into his arms, and Cas went boneless against him, snaking his arms around Dean’s waist and clutching for dear life.

“I missed you, too, Dean. Every moment. I apologize for not coming home sooner.”

Dean caught it, the way Cas casually called the Bunker, _him_ , ‘home,’ and suddenly he couldn't find it in himself to be angry at the angel. It seemed like a waste of time.

“S’okay. I get that you’re important and busy. Just . . . don’t do it again, okay?”

Cas chuckled, nuzzling into Dean’s neck. “I wouldn't dare.”

+++

Sam had no idea what Dean said to Cas after he left to give them their privacy. But whatever it was, it worked, because Cas never left for very long again, and he seemed to spend 85% of his time on Earth with Dean. Sam would find them disgustingly, horribly cute if he weren't for the fact that Dean was so happy. He spent most of his days with a dumb grin on his face that never went away. Which was good, because it matched Cas's. Sam was mostly just glad they’d finally stopped dancing around each other, though. It had been getting pretty tiring until Dean finally did something about it. And now he had Cas all to himself, and probably had never been and could never be as happy as he is now. All because of a prayer on the wrong frequency, though Sam liked to think they would've worked out their problems soon, with or without it. This was much simpler, though.


End file.
